in the fade

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the fight against ourselves is an option; and still,

we wait behind the closed doors of our past, looking for something good, something

better than this

in the fade,

my headlights glow yellow-gold toward the horizon,

my tires hugging the white line on one side, the dotted on the other

close enough to whisper, long enough to let go

_____________________________________

I sway to the rhythm of the wind more than most, I think. Trees sway. Flowers sway. They sway because they are rooted deeper, twisting and tangling their foundation into the ground, a little deeper with each passing day.

At the same time, birds fly; they ride. They let open their wings, gliding through the changes that come with all attempts to avoid tangles. They end up where they end up, landing on grass, landing on water, and picking back up again to carry on.

There are two types of people, but only the ones in between. In the scope of change, I am more like a tree.

I take what I have beneath me, and found all new things on the footing underground, the footing of what I know.

Good for discernment, rather deplorable when it comes to the too-close-for-comfort-changes.

The things that feel unsafe to me– coloring outside of the lines, a winter without snow– un-metaphored to breaking rules and encountering the unexpected, can be both the greatest adventure and the hardest of times, depending upon which mood you catch me in.

It’s in the state of uncertainty we can be in the deepest of prisons or in the freest of waters. We can choose to have no options, we can choose to have all options.

We sometimes live one extreme to another.

I pull my ankles up from the floor to the couch and tuck them around the left side of me. The insides of my feet touch, and my chest breathes, “grace”  in the same way it has done since August 2016 when my second tattoo was complete.

As far as the east is from the west. So far. (Psalm 103) And if I talk about it once, I might talk about it for the longest time.

So far in the way it interrupts my thoughts, interrupts my words, interrupts my life.

So far in the way that only grace can do.

Grace in the sense of liberty, of forgiveness, of it-doesn’t-matter-where-you-come-from; where you’re going is secure. Grace in the sense of everything, grace in the sense of nothing, all at once, never at the same time.

Grace is a fountain of raspberry lemonade on a winter day: wonderfully good, in a context unexpected.

Grace releases the tree from its roots and allows it to live by its branches. Grace keeps the roots intact, but flows water through them, speaking life back into the droughts, whispering wind into the most barren of spaces.

We are no longer held in wrestling with our soul over the things that don’t make sense, the things we wish we would have done differently, the ways we wish we would be changed.

Grace can be uncomfortable, challenging, and captivating at once. Grace knocks on the door like a camera flash and enters in like the afterimage, the way our eyes feel after a bright light is shined in our direction. We blink six times to regain our sight, and once we do, we race toward the camera to see the picture as it develops. A moment, frozen in time, where grace encounters us and keeps us there.

And we are free. We are free indeed.

 

 

 

 

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